


The Elements of Cake Design

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Cake, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an evening of liberal alcohol consumption and a hare-brained idea about it being a great place to meet creative women, Killian and Will find themselves reluctantly participating in a cake decorating course given by the proprietor of a local bakery and cake supply shop, assisted by her lovely foster daughter, who has never actually baked a cake before and needs to make sure no one else in the class finds that out.</p><p>All the fluff. All the tropes. Rated T for language with eventual M for cake related sexy times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baking Basics

**Author's Note:**

> After taking a Wilton course inspiration struck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bad drunken decision Killian and Will find themselves reluctantly participating in a cake decorating course.

Looking around at row after row of stainless steel counters and high grade commercial ovens, Killian Jones was wondering exactly how it was he found himself here. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, the product of a late night drunkenly sprawled out on Will’s floor, laptop on the coffee table and credit card in hand.

“Wha’ could be better than loads of sweets, booze, and young, artsy, single women?” Will had asked, and his friend’s logic at the time (combined with most of the contents of a large bottle of tequila and the harsh sting of dredged up memories of Milah and their brutal breakup)  _ was  _ flawless. What could be better indeed? After a good half hour of Will explaining to him, in vivid and explicit detail, exactly how creative an artsy, craftsy, woman could be, it had seemed like a no brainer to fill out the form and enter in his payment details for the both of them.

It turned out there were countless things that could be better, and certainly quite a bit that could be less humiliating.

Granted, Will’s promise of sweets was sure to pan out given the nature of the event, and the booze was self-supplied by his trusty hip flask and therefore not a factor, but young, artsy, and single women were apparently not on the menu for the evening. He could, however, have his pick of both pre and postmenopausal women, a few bored, but definitely not single, housewives, and it appeared that cake decorating was a wonderful couple’s activity.

“How did you talk me into this again, mate?” Killian eyes a stand up mixer speculatively, raising the head with one finger and letting it drop back down again with a dull thud.  Nestled among the tall monstrous mixers, and stacks of large mixing bowls, was everything one could possibly need for the evening’s planned activities.

“Fucked if I know,” Will pokes a bag of confectioner’s sugar. “But I must’ve been very convincing.”

The slightly older, but pretty blonde instructor has already arrived, organizing her things on a counter at the head of the room, a large binder spread out before her, and he wonders if she would be too put out if he apologized and then promptly bolted from the room.

Was there even enough booze in his flask to get him through three hours of cheerful instruction about the best way to bake and decorate confectionery? Kilian gives the flask a testing shake through his jacket, trying to determine the volume, doing some mental math on the amount he’ll need over time multiplied by his current level of humiliation.

The instructor looks up, smile ready, her eyes sweeping the assembled students. They land briefly on Killian and his partner in crime, widening in surprise and turning quickly to suspicion, before she clears her throat to address the class.

“Hello everyone!” Her voice has a whimsical breathless quality, light and cheerful, but somehow at the same time, firm and assured. Her smile is bright and open as greets them all.  “Just a few more minutes while I wait for my assistant to get here. While we wait, if everyone will take one of the markers on your stations and print your names on the cards provided so I can start memorizing them? I want to get to know each one of you.”  Every sentence seems to end on a whisper, the bright smile fixed in place as her eyes sweep the room.

She gestures with her hand, drawing their attention to the pile of markers and folded pieces of white card stock at the head of each station.

Killian grabs a marker, resigning himself to his fate. There was no backing out now, not only had she seen them already, the class had practically started and walking out on her at this point would be decidedly rude of them. He can survive this initial 3 hours, and they’ll just give the remaining 3 sessions a miss, no harm, no foul. Will grumbles something down by his shoulder but follows his example, scrawling a name and a smirking smiley face on the card face in purple.

“Guess it’s not all bad,” Killian smiles sarcastically at his best friend. “We’re learning a valuable and no doubt lucrative skill.”

“Bloody useless though innit?” Will snorts and stands up his name plate. “When are  _ we  _ ever going to decorate a bloody cake?”

“A question I wish you had asked prior to convincing me to sign up for an entire course dedicated to doing just that.” Killian bites out each word through clenched teeth, his voice fading off as the large double doors of the class kitchen swing open.

The woman who enters is a vision in a bright orange apron, her expression grim and determined, a ponytail of loose golden curls swinging out behind her as she strides purposefully across the room. Killian’s heart stutters in his chest as he takes her in, the sharp twist of instant attraction restarting it. She is lean, but shapely, in a soft, curve-hugging sweater and black leggings, a pair of no nonsense boots stopping just at her knees and emphasizing the slim contour of her thighs. He swallows. She is quite possibly one of the loveliest women he has seen in months, years even, and suddenly the class doesn’t seem like such a terrible idea after all.

“Well that’s interesting,” Will murmurs and Killian can’t help but wholeheartedly agree tongue pressing into his cheek eyebrows raised in interest, as she takes her place next to the instructor. She whispers a hurried apology to the older woman and distractedly reaches for a marker and a piece of cardstock.

“Okay, now that everyone is here, let’s get started shall we? My name is Ingrid of Cakes by Ingrid, and I’ll be your instructor in this course for the next 4 weeks,” she motions to the woman who has just finished writing on the card, and he can read “Emma Swan” in no nonsense blocky script as she stands it on the counter before her. 

 

“This is my assistant, Emma, and Emma will be walking around with me, helping you with some of the material, and answering any questions you may have.”

Emma looks up, a smile fixed in place but not quite reaching her eyes as she surveys the class. Her gaze lands on his, eyes widening in momentary surprise before she raises an eyebrow. Her lips tilt up into something decidedly more smirk than smile as she looks between him and Will.

Interesting indeed.

The instructor, Ingrid apparently, is going over her qualifications at the front as she moves materials about the work surface. She speaks about her years of culinary school, her ownership of a very successful and very popular local bakery and cake supply shop (where they can purchase all materials for the class at a significant discount!), and over a decade of teaching experience with this very course and a few others they are welcome to sign up for, but Killian hears none of it, his attention completely and utterly absorbed by the lovely blonde creature currently snapping a bowl into place on a mixer at the head of the room. She doesn’t look like she wants to even be there, her movements are jerky and stilted, and her expression could best be described as “reconciled to her fate”. She struggles briefly with the bowl, frowning at the base of the mixer before harshly jamming it into place.

He has been watching her for several moments, completely entranced, when he feels Will’s elbow jabbing into his side, and Killian belatedly realizes that Ingrid has made her way across the room to just in front of their station and she has apparently asked him a question. A question he hadn’t heard a word of.

“Pardon lass?” the tips of his ears burn, and he snaps his eyes away from the beautiful woman at the front.

“We’re all just sharing our reasons for taking this course,” Ingrid gives him a knowing smile. 

 

“And it’s your turn-,” she looks at his name card. “Killian.”

 

“Ah well,” he scratches the back of his ear. “New experience I suppose?” His eyes dart quickly to the blonde and she is smirking at him again, arms folded across her chest. “I’ve always fancied learning how to decorate a cake, I have a very creative soul you see, and this class just seemed to call to it.”    

  
  


“Is that so?” The woman murmurs, voice edged in doubt, and her eyes turn to Will. “And you young man?”

 

“Too be honest I was a bit off me ‘ead when we signed up,” Will rubs the back of his hair, and Killian wants to throttle him as the other members of the assembled group titter. 

 

Ingrid just smiles indulgently at the pair, like she has a delicious secret, turning to walk back towards the front.

 

“Well regardless of your reasons for being here I’m very happy you are,” she breathes out. “And we will hopefully have a lot of fun together.”

 

Killian’s gaze drifts back towards the blonde in the orange apron and he finds himself thinking “Hopefully.”

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Emma is unsure exactly how Ingrid managed to talk her into giving up four Tuesday nights in a row just to fake her way through what will eventually culminate into twelve hours of baking basics and piping instruction. And faking it will definitely be, because Emma hasn’t made much more than break and bake cookies in years, and she has  _ never  _ baked anything on her own voluntarily. Even years of Ingrid’s attempts at mother-daughter bonding, sessions of making festive royal icing cookies and participating in charity bake sales, haven’t given Emma the skills necessary to pull this off, but she feels she owes it to Ingrid to at least try.

Ingrid’s usual assistant Elsa, Emma’s foster cousin and current best friend, was out on extended leave to help her sister with her new baby, and Ingrid certainly couldn’t handle a class this size alone. Cancelling the class was also out of the question. Ingrid relied on the extra income and the exposure it brought her bakery and attached cake supply shop.  The revenue from supply sales during the course alone covered a large portion of the shop’s monthly expenses, which was why she even bothered giving these classes in the first place.  Daily sales at of various baked goodies barely handled the overhead and the decorating classes for cakes and cookies provided a nice cushion between the larger cake orders. Ingrid also enjoyed them, her love of teaching and of the craft evident in everything she did.  Ingrid needed her help, and she needed her to pull this off convincingly enough that these paying customers didn’t lose faith in the shop’s credibility.

Emma’s eyes sweep the class appraisingly, and it is, as she expected, filled with the usual sorts of people, bored housewives taking a little me time, couples looking for something to do on their date nights, and mother-daughter duos trying to bond over a mutual craft of some sort. Row 3 however, with its two sheepish and out of place leather clad occupants, takes her completely by surprise. 

 

One of them looks like he has already partaken of a good portion of a bottle of whisky, eyeing the arrangement of ingredients before him with suspicion and a slight sway on his feet. The other is ridiculously attractive, unnervingly so, black hair falling across his forehead and brilliant blue eyes sweeping Emma with a burning intensity, tongue pressed to the bottom of his teeth. An intensity that has him missing Ingrid’s query entirely. 

 

His ears turn red in embarrassment as he answers, obviously caught, and it’s clear immediately he had much different intentions with this class, but he pops his t’s and over enunciates each word in a decidedly sinful accent and that tongue moves slowly to the corner of his mouth while he ponders his response, and Emma thinks  _ “Well, fuck.” _

She catches Ingrid’s eye as the woman makes her way back up to the front and Emma has to fight ridiculously hard not to turn bright pink at the raised eyebrow and “Did you see him?” look on Ingrid’s face. She most certainly has seen him, and she is really appreciating what she sees, but she also absolutely refuses to allow this to become one of Ingrid’s “Let’s set Emma up with anyone remotely single” missions. The most recent, a guy at Ingrid’s stupidly trendy furniture store, had ended badly enough, just another in a long string of terrible dates and one night stands, and Emma didn’t need yet another notch on her dysfunctional bed post.

 

Emma shakes her head curtly at her foster mother before she turns back to fiddle with the mixer, trying very hard not to so much as glance in his direction. Ingrid was notorious for pushing any moderately attractive male at both her foster daughter and her niece: waiters, baristas, random men on the train, it didn’t matter as long as they were passably attractive and of a similar age. It appeared that this class was going to be no exception for her ill-fated attempts at matchmaking, and worse, Ingrid didn’t have only a five minute coffee order with which to work her magic, she had, at the very minimum, three entire hours of instruction.

“Okay everyone!” Ingrid claps her hands together, startling Emma back to reality, and smiles broadly at the class. “First, we start with the basics! Now, most of you have probably baked a cake before,-“ Emma hears the shorter one snort to himself, and catches  the handsome one elbowing him again out of the corner of her eye, “-but we’re going to go over some tips while we prepare our cakes for tonight. First we’ll just discuss some of the major pitfalls that can happen, things like domed tops, sunken middles, and improper pan preparation.”

Emma feels the beginnings of panic starting to rise up into her throat as the class gets under way. She knows exactly nothing about any of those topics.

She sends up a silent prayer up to the heavens that she will not cause herself any embarrassment, that no one will ask her any difficult questions, and most importantly, that Ingrid will be too preoccupied with doing her job to meddle in Emma’s love life.

“Now who has baked a cake before?” Ingrid asks the class. Predictably, most of those assembled raise their hands, at least one person at each station of two has, except for Row 3. Of fucking course.

“Ah, well most of you then, or your partners have at any rate,” Ingrid  practically beams, her eyes twinkling merrily at the two men. 

 

“Oh, except you two gentleman. Emma, would you mind going back to help Will and Killian with their cake since they’ve never made one before?” Ingrid keeps her face the absolute picture of innocence, but Emma sees it all in her eyes and sends a glare her way before stomping across the room. She wants to point out that  _ technically  _ she hasn’t ever made a cake by herself either, but Emma doubts the paying customers would appreciate knowing that, and Ingrid would be devastated.

Her eyes flick quickly up to the pair. 

 

The Drunk One looks like he is stifling a yawn, but The Handsome One looks absolutely delighted at this turn of events. He grins at her, all perfect white teeth against dark scruff and Emma is dismayed to find that not only do his eyes crinkle at the corners with the action, but he has actual dimples, the bastard. Emma takes a breath and curses inwardly as it seems that none of her prayers will be answered this day.   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

So far they have placed a few sticks of soft butter into the mixer’s bowl, along with quite a large portion of sugar, and the machine was now underway with the business of stirring the mixture slowly using a large paddle. Ingrid had called it creaming, and Will had snorted like a child. Killian’s ears turning red with embarrassment at the look of momentary disgust on Emma’s face and the roll of her eyes.

Things were going swimmingly.

Ingrid has moved on at the front, demonstrating something called a “sifter”, and giving a lecture on the importance of going to the trouble of using such a device, but Killian’s eyes and attention are trained entirely on the lovely woman who has taken up the place between him and Will. 

 

She is refusing to look directly at him for some reason, choosing instead to look practically anywhere else, as she helps them assemble their cake.

She picks up a box from the pile of ingredients and holds it up for them, focusing mostly on Will, only occasionally allowing them to drift in Killian’s direction.

“Well this is uh-“ Emma’s eyes dart to the label. ”Cake flour, and its um, used for making cakes.”  

  
  


Killian reaches around her to grab a bowl and a sifter from their supplies, like the one Ingrid has been using at the front, one hand hovering in the space just above the small of her back as he leans across. She smells wonderful, like vanilla and citrus and he gets just a hint of it as he pulls back with the items in hand. He hears her suck in a small gasp at his proximity, but she continues on in shaky tones. It’s the only indication she’s given that she is even acknowledging his presence, and it makes him smile a bit as he places the bowl directly in front of her.  

 

“So we just um, just measure out the right amount, and then we put it in the sifter and sift it into the bowl,” she sounds completely unsure of herself, her eyes darting back and forth between the ingredients and Ingrid as she drags a knife across the now full measuring cup. 

 

Emma frowns down at it, and leans over to check the laminated recipe card they have been provided. “You measure out three cups,” she checks the card again “Yeah, that’s right, three cups of cake flour into the sifter…thing.” Killian raises an eyebrow as Emma dumps the contents of the cup into the top of the contraption. A fine cloud of flour puffs up and she waves it away impatiently.

“Okay, now we just…. sift it,” she picks up the sifter, her hands squeezing experimentally at it experimentally, peering into the top to see the result. She doesn’t give the impression she has actually ever even held one before, and it is awkward in her hand as she pulls at the trigger again, halfheartedly, tapping the metal object against the sides of the bowl before squeezing again.

“Have you ever even made a cake before?” Killian asks her curiously, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial. He steps closer into her space, gesturing at the sifter and her poor management of it as evidence to the contrary.

“Yes I have made a stupid cake before,” Emma hisses at him and gives the trigger a few more angry squeezes to prove her point. “I’ve made lots of cakes. It’s my job to make cakes. All the cakes. With Ingrid at her bakery that specializes in cakes.”

“No. It’s not,” Killian says suspiciously and narrows his eyes, catching the lie in her voice and the flush on her cheekbones. “I don’t think you’ve ever made a cake, not by yourself at any rate lass.” He say slowly.

Emma looks up at him wide-eyed, almost dropping the device into the small pile of flour that has accumulated in the bowl. Her eyes dart to Will who is blessedly not paying them a bit of attention, looking at his phone instead, his fingers moving rapidly over the screen as he presumably tries to figure out a way to gracefully get of this. She looks back to the sifter, continuing to squeeze it angrily, growling out her frustration when the trigger jams.  

“Oh and you have?” she bites out. Killian smiles, gently reaching over and taking the sifter from her grasp, his fingers brushing hers.

“Once, when I was a lad,” he examines it for a moment, moves the spring on the trigger back into place, and resumes the sifting, his movements fluid and purposeful, giving it little shakes occasionally to keep the blades from jamming. Soft sifted flour falls delicately into the bowl. Emma glares at it like it has personally betrayed her. 

 

“For my mum’s birthday, I watched her a few times making our cakes, and I decided to try my hand at it to surprise her,” he motions towards the flour, indicating she should measure out the next cup. She huffs a bit but does so, they are already pretty far behind in their cake preparation, and she doesn’t want to draw any further attention to them. “My brother helped with the oven bits though.”

“So why did you lie about it when Ingrid asked?” Emma asks and dumps the next cup into the sifter, waving away another cloud of flour. Killian’s smile grows as he continues to sift.

 

“Well I was seven, hardly a professional now was I?” He finishes and slides the bowl of flour across the counter to her.  “The question becomes love,” he leans in closer, his breath hot on the shell of her ear, stirring a few tendrils of hair that have escaped from her ponytail. She can barely hear him over the whirring of a dozen mixers but she can certainly  _ feel  _ him, “Why did  _ you  _ lie about it?”

“Bathroom? Right this way, let me show you!” Emma grabs him by the wrist yanking him towards the doors, ignoring Ingrid’s triumphant look on her way out.  To his credit Killian plays along instantly, not even looking surprised by her outburst, following her out into the hallway.

“Excellent tactic to get me alone darling, well played, no one will suspect a thing,” his smirk widens as she rolls her eyes, arms crossing over her chest.

“Look, okay-,” Emma takes a deep breath and sighs, her eyes meeting his. They are startlingly green in the fluorescent lights and Killian can see her worry reflected in them. His smirk drops a bit, “-no I don’t know how to bake a cake. I don’t know how to pipe stupid flowers, or make seashell borders with fucking vanilla buttercream or any of this stuff, but Ingrid needs my help and she relies on this class for her business so I need  _ you  _ to keep it cool and let me act like I know what I’m doing for the next few hours.” Her expression turns pleading. 

“Can you  _ please  _ do that for me?”

Killian’s face softens into a genuine smile, which Emma finds is every bit as devastating as the smirk, and he nods at her reassuringly.  It’s endearing really, her desire to help what he assumes is a relative of hers, despite her complete lack of experience and the high potential for embarrassment. He doesn’t know much about decorating cakes, obviously, but he highly doubts it’s something you can just con your way through.

 

“Of course, love, ” Killian gives a little, slightly ridiculous, bow, moving even closer. 

 

The small hallway instantly shrinks in size, and Emma can feel the heat from his chest as he slides easily into her space, his pitched voice low. “As far as anyone in that room will know you were the head of your pastry class at Le Cordon Bleu and I am your humble, but appreciative, student who would like just a mere-” Killian pauses, his eyes going darker as they move across her face, “taste….of your considerable talents.” Emma swallows, chest tight.

“Yeah well, we don’t need to go that far, maybe just pretend I know how to make a fucking cake alright?”

 


	2. Buttercream Skills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes nuisance of himself and Killian helps deal with a cake baking failure.

Emma is dismayed to find that they are considerably behind when they rejoin the class a few minutes later. The group is scraping pale yellow batter into silver brushed aluminum pans, while Ingrid instructs them on the merits of various pan release sprays and describes the wonder that is parchment paper.  She is even further dismayed to find that The Drunk One, who goes by Will if his half-hearted attempt at a nameplate is any indication, hasn’t even attempted to follow along, eyes still glued to his phone as he waves halfheartedly at the  churning mixer, which has apparently been going since they left.

“Lots of stuff ‘appened while you were two were gone,” he offers innocently and Emma and Killian both send a glare in his direction.

She hurriedly shuts the mixer off, looking down at the batter, which thankfully looks just as yellow as anyone else’s and by appearances is no worse for the wear with the extra mixing, the flour extremely well incorporated by this point.  Killian is already moving to grab a pan from the pile of materials, holding it up in triumph at her and setting it down. He peers across the aisle to the couple at station four, a capable looking woman with short cropped black hair and a guileless expression, and her equally pleasant looking husband, who stares down at his wife fondly as she works on spraying their pan and pouring the batter into it.

It is only a very discreet and sly hand on her arm that keeps Emma from pouring the batter directly into the tin as is. Killian motions with a jerk of his head to the canister of spray flour and then to the couple who have finished prepping their own pan.

“Shit,” she curses under her breath and hands Killian the bowl sliding the pan towards her. “And now, Will , we’ll spray the pan to make sure the cake comes out without sticking to it,” she says loudly, looking pointedly at the man, who looks up from his phone mouth opened wide.

“What the hell you tellin’ me for?” despite his protest he shoves the phone into the pocket of his jacket and reaches for the spray. He gives it a sarcastic and over dramatic shake before spraying it liberally into the pan, probably too much so, if the heap of white liquid that builds up at the bottom is any indication. He finishes with a flourish and a pointed look of his own.

Emma glares at him again and jerks the bowl away from Killian, unceremoniously dumping the contents into the pan. He wordlessly hands her a spatula to scrape it.

“Easy lass,” he murmurs into her ear as she flings the remaining batter into the pan. “We’ll get through this together, just don’t drench us in sponge batter, eh?” He motions to her hand, where little flecks of the pale yellow cake mixture are coating both her arm and his. 

Emma visibly calms and lets out a shaky breath as she hands him the bowl again. He deposits it into the sink with a flourish, and she responds by giving the pan a firm shake, using the spatula to smooth the batter on the top. He plucks it from her hand when she’s done, both of them moving seamlessly around each other as they prepare the cake. 

“That’s it, love, now into the oven with it,” he keeps his voice low so only she can hear, and he is so close it’s almost distracting, but Emma finds both his voice and proximity more than a bit soothing as she gives the pan one more shake and slides it into the already pre-heated oven.

“Your friend is a useless…what’s a word you would use? Git?” Emma says quietly, narrowing her eyes at the git in question, who looks at them with an innocent “Who me?” expression and a smirk.

“Aye, that he is,” Killian agrees, wetting a rag underneath the faucet of their station’s sink to carefully wipe cake batter off both her arm and his own. “Although there are a few other choice words I’d use, wanker, tosser, pillock…” he continues, releasing her arm before moving to rinse the bowl in the sink.

Will gives him a saccharine sweet smile, stepping up to the workstation and rubbing his hands together.

“Now wha’?” 

“Now, Will-” Ingrid appears before them, as if by magic, no doubt circling the room to make sure all cakes have made it safely into the oven.   “We’re going to learn how to prepare the class icing recipe and learn all about the importance of frosting consistency.”

She resumes her trek around the workstations, her eyes sweeping the room.

“This same recipe will be used for the remainder of the class on all your projects, but you’ll be preparing a majority of it in your own kitchens and bringing it with you when you come next time.” 

 

Ingrid has made her way back to the head station and turns, looking back at everyone serenely. “You’ll also prepare all the treats we’ll use for future classes ahead of time, but don’t worry,” her eyes seem to land directly on Emma and Killian, fairly sparkling with mischief. “I’ll make sure everyone has the help they need.”

_____

 

The class icing recipe seems to involve what appears to be a preposterous amount of confectioner’s sugar, and ridiculously large quantities of fat. It almost turns Killian’s stomach how much of the white greasy substance is going into the mixing bowl as he helps Emma spoon it out of a large shortening canister on the counter before them. Yet, Ingrid insists they use all of it, letting them know that they can feel free to substitute half of that fat for a different type of fat if they choose, but the end result is the same, the icing appears to be made up of nothing but lard and powdered sugar.

Will, for his part, is mostly just making a nuisance of himself, leaning between Emma and Killian when they edge too closely together and then smiling gleefully at Killian’s fierce expression, peering into the bowl with a look of distaste but still making attempts to stick his finger in to try the concoction. He is like a small child, fiddling with the ingredients, tossing the sifter cup in the air sprinkling bits of flour all over his hair and shoulders, shuffling the instruction cards like he is planning on playing poker with them at some point. Killian is used to his friend’s erratic, and frankly, childlike behavior, but Emma looks increasingly like she could throttle him or bash him over the head with the mixer.

“Will, mate, why don’t you shove off now. This doesn’t seem like it’s quite your thing anyway. I apologize for bringing you into it,” Killian slyly suggests, looking at his friend purposefully and jerking his head towards the double doors.  “I think Swan here can manage in your stead.”

“And miss you trying to ‘ave it off with her by poncing about learning how to make fairy cakes or whatever it is we’re doing here?” Will grins, successfully getting past Emma this time to dip his finger into the mixture. He sucks on it briefly and pulls it out of his mouth with a satisfied pop. “Not bloody likely.”

The look Killian gives him would cow a lesser man, but Will has spent enough time with his best friend to know it’s mostly bark, and dances away, putting Emma between them as a buffer. He tries to reach around once more to get a finger in, but Emma’s elbow in his stomach is enough deterrent and he settles for leaning on the counter instead, his chin cupped in one hand.

Ingrid is lecturing now, talking about the different uses for different consistency icings, letting them know that they’ll be separating this large batch into smaller batches that will be used for different things. Thin to crumb coat their cakes or write on them, medium to ice it and to pipe, and stiff in later classes for things like roses. Will begins to grin at the word stiff, eyes glittering with mischief, but the man is thankfully silent, merely raising an eyebrow at Killian as if to say “I could have said something mate, don’t test me.”

Emma ignores both of them, studiously and carefully following along with Ingrid’s demonstration, spooning the now completed frosting into three separate bowls to be colored and thinned appropriately.

“What colors do we want?” Emma looks at the large box of gel food coloring that’s been provided for them. “Up to you guys.”  Before Killian can answer Will steps forward, his voice deepening dramatically.

“Green, like yer eyes my darling,” he switches sides, his face mocking, his voice increasing in pitch and femininity, becoming almost breathless. “And blue like yer’s my dove, they’re like the ocean they are.”

Emma starts at him, fist up and at the ready, but Killian’s hand on her arm pulls her back as Will darts a few steps away across the aisle, covering his cowardice by pretending to be interested in the nice couple from earlier’s progress rather than saving his own skin. He rubs it for a moment, a soothing stroke of warm heat through the fabric of her sweater.

“Just let him be lass, he’s not worth the bloodied knuckles,” Killian sighs. “Trust me, I know.” He turns his attention instead to the offering of colors, scratching behind his ear.

“Any preferences?” he asks. She shrugs and closes her eyes, reaching out blindly to grab one of the tubs at random. Killian smiles at her method of color selection, at the adorably childlike expression on her face, and closes his own eyes to do the same, selecting two from the box.

“I got pink,” she holds up her tub lid so he can see the shade sticker.

“Yellow,” he reads “And teal. Well it will be quite tropical, that’s for sure.” Emma grins, watching Ingrid dip toothpicks into the tubs to dot the frosting with them.  She hands Killian a spatula.

“Let’s get to mixing mister,” she glares at Will who is making a nuisance of himself by trying to snag tastes of the pixyish woman’s frosting. She weilds her spatula like a weapon, slapping his hands away, her husband looking murderous.

 

“Will, get over here and grab a bowl,” Emma barks.

She shoves yellow and a bowl of frosting at his chest when he approaches and he winces rubbing the place idly.

“Just dot it in there with the toothpicks, a little goes a long way, and stir until it’s all mixed up and the shade you want,” she paraphrases Ingrid’s instructions with a stern expression. Her eyes catch Killian’s and her voice is softer when she says “You too, Teal.”

They are blessedly quiet for a few a minutes, the entire class mixing coloring into their batches of frosting while Ingrid explains the importance of using a “no taste” red icing to achieve a rich red color without the aftertaste. Killian thinks idly to himself as he stirs that is good to know for his Christmas cakes before scoffing at his own ridiculousness, as if he ever had or ever would have Christmas cakes, busying himself by stirring the teal dots of coloring into the white icing a bit more briskly.

“Excellent color choices everyone, they all look so bright and cheerful!” Ingrid says enthusiastically at the head of the class, but Killian doesn’t notice, focusing instead on Emma, who sucks idly on a toothpick that has dipped too far into her frosting.  She darts her tongue out, now stained a brilliant pink, and licks her lips a few times, turning them pink as well before putting the toothpick back in.

It’s terribly distracting those bright pink lips of hers, and Killian’s arm slows, the bowl tilting down as he stops mixing completely. It’s the lack of motion that makes Emma look up, the arm with the toothpick dropping down, away from those bright pink lips. She licks them again, parting them slightly as she takes in the utterly captivated look on his face. 

“If you’re not careful mate you’ll make a tasty treat out of your boots,” Will says from behind Killian, startling them both. Killian fumbles with the bowl, almost dropping it, realizing that it  _ was  _ almost upside down over his footwear, but luckily the contents are stiff enough to stay put.

“Thanks, mate,” he bites out through clenched teeth, sheepishly setting the bowl on the counter. Emma turns away from him, her face the same color as her lips as she continues to mix her batch.

“Oh anytime,” Will says with mock seriousness. “Here we are, yellow like your golden locks, milady.” Will plops the bowl onto the counter with an exaggerated flourish, clearly taking great pleasure in being as embarrassing as possible. 

 

“Like the sun they are, or something like that. What do you think, Prince Charming? Any poetry to add?” He nudges with his elbow at Killian, who bats it away forcefully.

“I think I will take great pleasure in dismembering your lifeless body, piece by piece, when this evening is over,” Killian threatens, teeth still clenched and his expression fierce.

“That’s not particularly gentlemanly now issit?” Will waggles an eyebrow at him. “You’ll frighten the lady.”

“The lady,” Emma spits out through clenched teeth of her own. “Will gladly lend him a hand.”

Will is spared further threats by Ingrid clearing her throat at the front of the class, her gaze on him sharp and disapproving before turning a brilliant smile on the rest of the class.

“Okay everyone, it should be close to time for us to check on our cakes and get them cooling, so we’ll open our ovens and very carefully insert a toothpick in the middle to see if it comes out clean. Like so.” She removes her own cake from the oven, placing it on the counter and demonstrating for them the process of inserting the toothpick and drawing it out.  

Ingrid’s cake is perfect, a lovely, golden brown in color, completely flat and beautifully risen to the top of her pan.  She smiles serenely, inverting it over a cardboard disc, showing everyone how easily it comes out, a perfectly round circle just ready to be iced.

Killian peers down into the oven that Emma is now opening, realizing immediately when she pulls the rack out that their cake looks nothing like Ingrid’s.  The yellow mass in their pan is nowhere near the top, has actually sunken completely in the middle, a large divot in the center a sickly yellow cake.  Will opens his mouth to comment on the obvious baking failure but Killian steps back, digging his heel into the top of Will’s foot before he can say a word, and he falls silent after a startled yelp of pain.

“What the hell happened?” Emma hisses, slamming the oven door closed with her hip as she plops the cake pan onto the counter. Killian moves his body automatically in front of it, blocking it from view. “Just a few more minutes I think,” she says loudly for the benefit of those who turn to stare at the noise, lowering her voice to a hiss for Killian. “What are we going to do?”

“We must have forgotten something,” Killian grabs the stack of instruction cards, flicking to the cake recipe. “We creamed the eggs, butter and sugar, we added the sifted flour, the salt, the-“ he looks up at her, eyes widening. “I think we forgot the baking powder, love.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Emma looks at the cake, willing it with her mind to take shape again and puff up to normal cake proportions. “I’m guessing baking powder is important?” She whispers sarcastically.

“It’s a leavenin’ agent,” Will provides helpfully, peering over their shoulders at the mess, and Emma raises her foot as if to step on his other one. He backs away, hands up. “Just tryin to help.”

“It’s okay Swan, just give us a minute to think,” Killian says.  His hand once again goes to rest on her arm, rubbing up and down a few times reassuringly. It does help her feel a bit more calm, the action soothing, and he at least seems confident they can figure out a plausible solution. She takes a deep steadying breath.

It keeps her calm, that is, until she gets a look at the other cakes that are coming out of ovens all around the class. One by one perfectly circular, golden brown discs are deposited to cool on cardboard cake rounds, not a single bad cake in the bunch. Not one with a sunken middle, or puffy, cracked top, just lovely perfectly flat cakes, exactly the right height and color. She feels her chest tighten with anxiety.

“How is it going to look if the only shitty cake in this whole class is the one being supervised by the instructor’s assistant?”  Emma whispers to him, eyes widening again as the panic creeps back into her chest.  She sees something flash across his face, and he smiles at her.

“No worries Swan, I have a plan.”

Before Emma can say anything, or even move, he is reaching forward and grabbing the cake pan, lifting it off the counter top. He hisses in pain as the still burning metal touches his skin, but he hangs on long enough to get it away from her before dropping it to the floor. It falls in slow motion, end over end, Killian drawing his injured hand to his chest as the cake smashes to the ground He gives it a kick for good measure so it is nothing but a pile of unidentifiable crumbs, but Emma doesn’t notice it at all, her focus instead on his now pink, and rapidly blistering hand.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?” she reaches forward, grabbing his wrist and prying his hand away from where it is cradled to his chest.  She is careful, turning it gently to see the extent of the damage.

“Brilliant move mate, that’s how you win ladies over, show ‘em feats of strength and resilience,” Will says unsympathetically. “You ruined me dessert.” He points to the mess on the floor.

Emma glares at him briefly before turning to look at Killian. It’s obvious he is in some amount of pain, his face mostly just a grimace, but he is smiling at her through clenched white teeth. 

“Not to worry love, just a foolish mistake on my part,” he hisses when her finger brushes close to the affected area.

“What happened here?” Ingrid’s breathless voice is at Emma’s side. “Oh no, are you okay Killian?” She lays a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Emma raises an eyebrow at her foster mother.

“I’m sorry, I forgot about the temperature and grabbed the pan,” Killian looks down at his hand sheepishly. “But please, it’s fine, I shall recover, it wasn’t too bad.”

Ingrid looks at the hand skeptically, but her eyes are sparkling with opportunity.

“Emma, sweetheart, there is a first aid kit on the wall in that office just outside, in the hallway, can you take Killian there and get him all patched up?” she looks meaningfully at her foster daughter. “Take good care of him, won’t you?”  

Emma scowls at her, but it turns quickly back to concern when she looks at Killian’s hand.

“Yeah, come on,” she puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m actually pretty decent at first aid.”

“Getting the ole’ nursemaid routine, you clever dog,” Will murmurs. 

 

Killian makes it a point to step on his foot again on the way out.

_____

 

“Why the hell did you do that?” Emma whirls on him the minute they are in the small office, shoving him into a chair with a hand on his chest. “Hold on.”  She goes to the wall, taking down the metal first aid kit and slamming it on the wooden desk next to his seat. 

“Apologies lass, I didn’t actually intend to burn myself,” Killian’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I truly did forget the pan was hot, I only meant to drop it on the floor in a fit of clumsiness.” Killian uses his good hand to rub the back of his head. “Which turned out to a fairly realistic performance. I’m a method actor it seems.”

“You’re an idiot,” Emma rolls her eyes, but her tone is less angry now and closer to fond exasperation, which Killian much prefers. He gives her a sheepish smile.

“Aye, that I am,” he focuses on her hands, small and delicate, gently taking up his wrist again to inspect the damage. “I only meant to help, Swan.” He says to them softly. Emma looks at him over his hand, swallowing.

“Well you did, help that is, we don’t have to worry about anyone seeing that cake, that’s for sure,” she scoffs. “And, as a bonus we can kill some of the time in here patching you up.” She steps in between his legs, flipping the latch open on the first aid kit.

“By all means, take your time darling,” his voice is still soft, but for a completely different reason now. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyebrow raised. Emma swallows again, but focuses on her task, removing burn cream, and bandages from the metal box.

“You’re not going to sue are you?” she asks after a moment, ripping open the packet of the cream. “I think Ingrid has insurance for this kind of thing but I’d prefer if you didn’t take this to court.”

“I swear I won’t involve any part of the legal system in this incident, Swan,” he smiles. “I am not, in any way, litigious.”

“Thank god for that,” Emma gently spreads the substance on the burn, blowing slightly on the blistered flesh. The cool air moves across his palm, soothing it instantly, and despite the lingering sting Killian shifts in his seat from a different sensation altogether, his knees brushing the sides of her thighs with the movement. Emma falters for a second, sucking in a breath of her own.

“You probably won’t be able to use the hand for a bit,” she says after a moment. “You got it pretty good.”

“Perhaps I could persuade you to continue your “nurse maiding” then?  Lend a helping hand as it were?” He grins at her, giving her that same charged look from earlier, his tongue pressed into his cheek. Emma rolls her eyes, tossing the empty packet behind her into the trash and reaches for the roll of bandage.

“Please, it’s not even your dominate hand, I think you can manage, plus you have Will,” she points out. Killian scoffs.

“That berk? Fat lot of help he would be,” he looks at her, as if to remind her of Will’s previous behavior, and Emma smiles, nodding.

“I can see how he would be less than useful,” she slowly winds the cotton bandage around his palm, gently moving the limb as she does so, shifting closer to him with every turn.

“I do appreciate your….attentions, love,” he says softly, leaning his head closer as if to inspect her work before peering up at her through a fringe of soft dark brown hair.  Emma is struck for a moment by his expression, by how close they’ve become in the small space, by how blue his eyes are, and she pauses for a moment with the bandaging. There is no sound in the room save for their quiet breathing and the ticking of the clock on the wall, and Emma leans slightly closer.

There is a noise from somewhere, an AC compressor kicking on, and she startles, nearly dropping the bandages. Emma gives her head a shake, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“No problem, like I said I’m good at first aid,” she grabs a roll of tape and some small angled scissors.

“Are you some kind of emergency worker?” he asks looking her up and down as if trying to determine her profession through the tacky orange apron. “Or are you  _ actually  _ a nurse?”   Emma laughs, cutting off a few pieces of medical tape.

“Neither. I work in bail bonds. I’m a recovery agent. It’s a rough gig chasing down lowlifes, sometimes I need to patch myself up,” she carefully applies the tape to the bandage ends to secure them in place and looks up to see Killian staring at her with what can only be termed slack-jawed fascination.

“That’s amazing,” he says after a moment, collecting himself and tearing his gaze away from her face to look at her handiwork. “And if you ever tire of that profession, I’d say you have a fair shot at making a go of it in medicine.” He smiles easily, one of his genuine ones, with the dimples and everything, and Emma practically gulps, taking a step backward out of his space, wiping her hands nervously on her jeans.

“Well…yeah,” she shrugs. “I have no idea if I did that right. I don’t usually get burned so it could be the wrong way to handle it,” she shrugs again. “But hopefully you should be good as new.”

Killian flexes his hand, the burn cream already helping to take the sting away. He stands, close enough in the small office where she can feel the heat of him and smell the leather of his jacket, and she looks up, her breath catching again at the expression in his eyes.

“Right you are Swan, brilliant work,” he smiles once more, that same genuine smile that keeps taking her off guard, and reaches up with his good hand to brush away a tendril of hair that has escaped from the confines of her ponytail. “I think I’m up for more cake decorating deception if you are? What do you say? Ready to see if we can continue to keep up this charade? Hopefully, without further injury to my person.”

Emma steps away, having trouble breathing with him so close, and takes in another shuddering breath to steady her slightly elevated pulse. This guy is trouble with a capital T, charming, handsome, and heroically clumsy, and she feels like she should probably stay far, far, away but instead finds herself smiling at the floor, kicking her toe into the tile before answering.

“Yeah, let’s go pipe some stupid flowers.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it! Hit me up on tumblr (@Ripplestitchskein)


	3. Piping Techniques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma practice some piping techniques.

They return to the classroom to find Will halfheartedly slathering a pristine cake round with white buttercream from a large tub, the contents of which are possibly even more horrifying than the class recipe, shining unnaturally under the florescent lights, an expiration date several years in the future stamped on the lid. The rest of the class is engaged in a similar pursuit, although they are a bit more enthusiastic in their endeavors, carefully applying and spreading sugared icing in a thin, deliberate layer, brows furrowed in concentration, which seems to be a much more effective strategy than Will’s show of plopping it down and poking at it a bit with the spatula in one hand while holding his phone in the other.

Emma glances between the new, perfectly baked cake, and Ingrid, questioningly.

“Killian, I’m sure Emma told you we always have spare cakes in the refrigerator for just such an incident?” Ingrid asks, giving Emma a pointed look. To his credit, Killian doesn’t miss a beat, nodding.

“Aye, that she did.  Once more, I apologize for my clumsiness milady and appreciate your foresight,” the charming bastard then gives a sweeping formal bow, injured arm behind his back, which utterly delights her foster mother and Emma wants to groan. For fuck’s sake. Any hope she harbored of Ingrid giving up on this little matchmaking scheme fizzles away even further in the face of romantic comedy-esque first aid attempts and this idiot’s displays of charming gallantry.

“Will is-“ Ingrid pauses looking at their mutual, if not unwanted, partner, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. “Putting the crumb coat on your cake?” It turns into a question as Ingrid tries to confirm that is, in fact, what he’s doing, and Will looks up and shrugs, giving the dollop of frosting he’s dumped onto the top another poke.

“Just following along, mum” he pokes at it again.

“Here let me help,” Emma says through clenched teeth.

She rips the utensil from his hands, knocking him aside with her hip. She may not have any idea how to do this but she’s confident she can do it better than that. Killian watches some of the other groups for a moment, and again, the young couple from before seem to be the most successful so far, their frosting thin and even throughout, just the barest bit of golden cake peeking through the thin layers as the tiny woman spreads it with a light hand, wiping any crumbs that collect in a separate bowl to keep them out of the frosting layer on the cake.

Killian steps closer, leaning down as if to inspect her work, his breath hot on the shell of her ear as he whispers.

“Light, easy motions, Swan, yes that’s it, and then you scrape the excess into this bowl-“ he slides a spare bowl over into her reach,  “Exactly lass….. good girl. Just. Like. That,” he keeps up a steady stream of little encouragements as she works, and Emma shudders at the pop of each T and the rasp of his voice, low and unintentionally seductive. It isn’t a far reach for her to imagine similar words whispered under decidedly less wholesome circumstances and for a brief moment her mind is filled with the image of blue eyes blown dark with desire, her hands splayed across his chest for leverage, his head tossed back in pleasure beneath her.

Emma almost knocks the cake off its little stand when she scrapes too hard with the spatula.

“Easy, love,” Killian gives her a little smile, apparently oblivious to his effect on her, and pushes the cardboard disc more firmly back onto the stand. “You’re doing fantastic.”

It takes a lot for her keep her face neutral and not preen under his praise so Emma bites her lip instead and keeps working.

Now that they have averted the cake related crisis it does seem to be going a little better, and Emma relaxes slightly as she continues to frost their cake, keeping a majority of the crumbs away and the icing as smooth as possible. They haven’t drawn any attention to her abilities, or lack thereof, their classmates far too distracted by injuries and dramatic displays of clumsiness to really notice that her movements are unsteady and unsure, or that she has to look at Ingrid and the other students over and over to confirm that she is, in fact, doing it right. 

It certainly helps that Killian just seems to know exactly what to do to draw their attention away, moving his body to block her, knocking things over to distract them, speaking loudly to Will when necessary to draw their focus away.

It’s like watching a magician or a thief at work, all sleight of hand, showy distractions, and misdirection, and she wonders what his actual profession is.  The leather jacket and dark features certainly scream “Bad Boy”, but then again he’s taking a cake decorating class on a weeknight.

“What do you do?” she blurts out and Killian looks up at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?” Emma flushes, realizing they have been silent for several minutes now, that her question is without context, and she glares at the cake as she continues to spread frosting onto it.

“For work, what do you do for work? I told you what I do,” she repeats, a bit defensively, but she doesn’t look away from the cake or her task, and thus doesn’t see the pleased grin of triumph spreading across his face at her inquiry, or the roll of Will’s eyes as he murmurs something about “bloody third wheel I am” under his breath at her other elbow.

“I’m a pirate captain,” he says and Emma looks up at in him incredulous. Will snorts.

“He’s a bloody ponce is what he is,” Will says and Killian glares at him.

“A pirate captain?” Emma raises an eyebrow. “And what’s your success rate with that terrible line, Captain?”

“It’s true,” Killian says defensively and reaches into the back pocket of his very snug jeans with his good hand, withdrawing his wallet. “My bona fides, madam.”

He flashes a business card at her face, twirling it between his fingers before she can snatch it with her free hand, the spatula clutched in the other as she reads “Jolly Roger Pirate Adventure Tours” and then under it “Captain Killian Jones”, there is a little red X in the corner of the card which is pale tan, with a weaving dotted line across it, burnt at the edges like a treasure map. There is an address for a nearby harbor, and other contact information as well as a website and Emma laughs despite herself.

“Wow,” she says shaking her head in disbelief. “I bet your success rate is excellent then.” She tucks the card into her back pocket and smiles.

“I can only hope, Swan,” he murmurs softly, leaning into her space again. Emma turns slightly to face him more completely, spatula forgotten, her eyes drifting up to meet his gaze, which has become serious and intent.

“Jesus Christ,” Will rubs a hand across his face from behind her, breaking her trance, and Emma jolts back to the cake she’s supposed to be frosting. “I don’t know ‘ow much more of this I can take.”

Killian’s nostrils flare and it is only Ingrid’s voice at the front that stops him from moving forward.

“Okay everyone!” she says cheerfully, unaware that she has saved a life this day. “Now we’re going to let our cakes stay in the refrigerator while we prepare our piping bags and practice a bit on our boards. You will be taking them home to practice on so you’re all ready for next week.”   

Emma is grateful for the break as she takes their cake to the fridge at the front. She just needs a moment to breathe, away from his warmth and his scent, and those crazy intense eyes. He is turning out to be so much trouble. She positions herself at the back of the line to give herself as much time as possible, prepping a small cardboard box on the counter and placing the cake inside of it while she waits for others to do the same.

Ingrid slides up next to her as she carefully puts their cake on the shelf when it’s her turn, using the provided marker to scrawl “Killian and Will” on the outside of the box.

“Things seem to be going well,” Ingrid says softly and Emma rolls her eyes.

“For who?” she casts a brief glance back to Killian who appears to be whisper yelling threats at Will at their space in the back. Will, for his part, looks unimpressed by whatever Killian is saying, rolling his eyes and inspecting his nails dramatically.

“Why the class of course,” Ingrid gives her a sly smile. “Although Killian does seem very nice.”

“No,” Emma shakes her head and practically slams the door of the fridge shut. “I told you no.” Ingrid hmms at her, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, but says nothing more.

“Okay everyone, on your benches you’ll find a box of pastry bags and a little tray of the decorating tips we’ll be using for this course. Both of these are yours to keep and you can take them home to practice on your cakes,” she points to the two items on her own bench and Emma drifts back to Killian’s station, avoiding his gaze as she takes up the position between the two men.

“Now for the smaller ones we’ll be using these couplers so you can quickly switch between types, but for the larger ones-“ Ingrid holds up an example, “-you put these directly into the bag, so we’ll do that one first.”

Emma takes a bag, and Killian hands her the tip they are using.

“Just drop it in the bag and push the tip all the way to the top and then we snip off just enough of the end for it to fit through the hole we’ve made,” Ingrid says.

Will is beside himself, practically bouncing with glee, his eyes shining.  Emma wants to put her head in her hands and groan.

“You ‘eard her,” Will snorts. “Push the tip all the way into the hole.”

Emma is really unsure why she is even surprised at this point and automatically puts a hand to Killian’s chest, warm and solid under her palm, to hold him back from thwacking Will upside the head. He is so surprised by the action, he forgets his original intent immediately and looks down at her instead, mouth slightly open.

“Hand me those scissors,” she says flushing, pulling her hand away like she’s been burned.   

He complies, relaxing, and settles for giving his friend a warning glare instead of the pummeling he probably deserves.

 

_____

They fill several bags with their different colors of frosting, each one taking turns. It’s a messy business, especially for Killian who only has the use of one hand, and he opts for the cup method of preparation instead. Will is surprisingly the best at this task, yellow frosting for the most part making its way into his bag rather than the surrounding area, and he grins at Killian in triumph.

Even with the cup to assist, there is blue and pink frosting all over their workstation, sticking to their spatulas, their forearms, her apron, and smeared along the countertop. Emma laughs at a bit of teal that has appeared on his forehead just under the lock of hair that keeps falling across it, no doubt left there in an attempt to brush the bit of hair away.  Before she can stop herself she is reaching up on tiptoes, her thumb scraping across the blue, wiping it off and popping the digit into her mouth. Killian’s eyes follow every single motion, trained finally on her lips as her thumb moves across her bottom teeth, drawing her lip down and he sucks in a breath, eyes darkening.

She wants to curse at herself. She knows she is deliberately provoking him, knows she is flirting with him, encouraging him, and she knows she should probably  _ stop  _ doing these things, but it is so natural and easy to fall into it, that low of hum of intense attraction just under her skin and warm in her belly. She also knows it’s reciprocated and that is possibly the best part of all. There is no uncertainty on her part that Killian is equally as attracted to her, no insecurity there, and she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wants her, he’s an open book in that regard.  She also knows that it’s exactly what Ingrid wants, knows that she’s playing right into her foster mother’s conniving hand, but it’s hard to care when he’s looking equal parts like he wants to devour her whole or pledge his undying love at her feet.

“I’ll need your professional assistance Swan,” he is saying, that ridiculous accent low and dangerous, a tone she is becoming increasingly familiar with, as he shuffles closer. He is still looking at her mouth.

“With what, Captain?” And she almost curses out loud as his expression shifts more towards the “devour her whole” end of the spectrum at her tone and use of his title. She is really walking a thin line here.

Thankfully Will is proving to be just the dose of cold ice water and reality she needs in these trying times.

 

“Now you’ve gone and done it. Ego the size of the moon, that one,” Will snorts, bending low over his practice board with his now full bag of icing. “Thinks just because he inherited some bloody boat he can start puttin on airs.”

Killian ignores his friend, holding up his own, less pristine, pastry bag.

“If you would, lass,” he motions to practice board, which is nothing more than cardboard wrapped in vinyl covered by clear plastic, a template underneath the plastic showing what they are supposed to be piping.

“Okay, so to make a star you’re gonna hold the bag at a 90 degree angle,” Emma reads, paraphrasing the instruction card loudly, trying to sound official and authoritative, like the assistant instructor she is supposed to be. “Just slightly above the board, and you’ll squeeze briefly with even pressure, then you’ll stop pressure and draw the bag back up,” she looks up at him, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “Sounds easy enough, right?”

“Aye lass,” he smiles at her reassuringly, adjusting the bag in his grip, using two fingers from his injured hand as best he can to hold the bag steady over the picture of an already completed star on the board. Emma steps closer, leaning over to watch his attempt.

He does exactly as instructed, pulling the bag back to reveal a perfectly formed star of frosting. He blinks in surprise, no one more shocked than he that it worked on the first attempt.

“Again,” Emma commands, feeling silly that she’s growing a bit excited at his success, but excited nonetheless. Killian grins at her and complies, pressing the tip closer to the board, giving it a gentle squeeze and drawing it back up. This star is slightly less perfect than the first, a tiny little wisp forming in the middle from where he drew back, but it’s still one of the best attempts Emma can see from her vantage point. He does it again. And again.

Will’s own is just a blob of frosting and the attractive couple they’ve been cheating off of all along are dismayed to find that they are overcompensating, their star attempts keeping coming out twice as high as they should be and much less well formed. A few others are closer, but she isn’t able to find any as well done as his.

“Let me try?” Emma whispers eagerly and Killian wordlessly hands her the bag.

She holds it over the board, hearing his hum of approval that she is where she needs to be and she gives a bit of pressure, follows his intake of breath takes that as a cue to stop, drawing back at a second hum of encouragement. Just like that, there is another perfectly formed star on the board. She looks up at Killian, eyes shining.

“I did it!” She hisses at him and he laughs at the gleeful expression on her face.  

“Aye lass, you appear to be a natural,” he whispers into her ear, his face full of pride, but turned away from the group, an expression only for her and Emma grins up at him, repeating the action over and over until there is an entire row of tiny uniform stars.

“No Will, like this,” she says loudly in her best teacher voice, and does it again. “You’re squeezing it too hard.”

“I’ve got somthin’ you can squeeze-“ he is cut off abruptly as Killian kicks the back of his leg, taking the blue frosting bag from her at the same time. Emma makes a show of trying to show Will the proper technique with his own frosting, just to make it look like she is doing her job, but he is not very receptive, producing a few smushed stars and even more sarcastic remarks for her trouble.

Rosettes go just as well, Emma finishing off a few with a flourish, Killian grinning down at her, tossing out a “Oh that’s how you do that, thank you Miss Swan,” for good measure, and she does allow herself to preen this time, a flush high on her cheeks. It is a nice feeling being good at something unexpectedly, especially after the baking disaster at the beginning of the class, a feeling she is not overly familiar with. It seems that Ingrid’s years of instruction didn’t go to waste after all.

More helpful than that though, is Killian, naturally encouraging her and giving her cues without any pre-discussion at all, just body language and breathing patterns.

There is a moment, after she executes a rosette swirl almost flawlessly on the plastic sheet, when she looks up at him in triumph that she is positive he is going to kiss her, his eyes shining and his lips tilted up at the corner, but Ingrid’s voice from the front of the room has him looking away, the moment lost, and Emma tries to ignore the disappointment creeping up her spine followed quickly by embarrassment.

Kissing a stranger over some frosting decorations is ridiculous in the extreme, and she edges away from him slightly, her guard going back up. She chooses to focus more on Will, who is giving the smallest amount of effort humanly possible, letting Killian complete several rows of flawless swirls on his own, despite his injury.    

He notices her slightly frostier demeanor but it doesn’t shake him, he still continues to offer her silent encouragement as they move from rosette swirls to ruffles, Ingrid’s instructions firm and clear as she moves around to each station to give assistance, excepting theirs.  

“How are you so good at this,” she asks finally, looking at her pink ruffle and comparing it to his blue.

“What can I say, love,” he leans into her pace. “I’m good with my…well, hand,” and he waggles it at her, eyebrow raised, but his expression is teasing and Emma smiles, shaking her head.

“You’re an idiot,” she murmurs, slightly fondly, and completes another ruffle.

“Too right,” Will is saying, drawing a disjointed line of frosting on his own board.

“All right class, I think this is a good stopping point,” Ingrid looks at the clock. “We can go ahead and start cleaning and packing up. There are zippered plastic bags for your used spatulas and tips to be washed at home, and a little carrier bag for your take home materials.”

Killian feels a pang of disappointment sharp in his gut that they’ve reached the end so soon. It feels like it has been barely thirty minutes, much less three hours and he definitely doesn’t want it to end here. He looks down at Emma who is wordlessly cutting the tips out of their piping bags, rinsing them under the sink.

“I think, Swan,” he leans a hip casually against the counter as she works, “That it might be a good idea if I took your number. I believe Ingrid mentioned we would need to make treats ahead of next week’s lesson and I think we both know I’ll need all the help I can get with that particular endeavor,” he looks at her with faux innocence, holding up his injured hand between them as evidence.

“I think you and Will can manage,” her eyes flicking briefly to his own and then away again.

Killian frowns.

“I thought we previously agreed that Scarlet was completely useless as a baking partner, as well as in life?” He tries to catch her eye but she is definitely avoiding it, focusing on packing up the supplies at their station rather than meeting his gaze.

“Oi!” Will says indignantly but Killian ignores him.

“All the more reason for you both to get all the practice you can then,” Emma smiles at him, and he’s dismayed to see that it is bit more closed off than just a few minutes ago, careful and controlled, and he may have just met her but he knows exactly what that smile means.

He sighs, and reaches for the wash cloth to begin wiping down the counter.

“Aye, lass, as you wish,” he motions with his head towards her pocket as he wipes frosting from the marble, “You have my card though, so if you’re feeling charitable, and take pity on a poor one-handed sea dog, give us a ring then?”

Emma nods, non-committal, and moves away, her eyes locking briefly with his, green on blue and she says softly.

“See you next class, Captain.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Come chat with me about our forever loves on tumblr (@Ripplestitchskein).


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